


quite a bit to look forward to

by leaveanote



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's sofa, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley in a dress, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hope, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Plans For The Future, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Romance, this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveanote/pseuds/leaveanote
Summary: Post-lockdown phone call, Aziraphale invites Crowley to come over, and Aziraphale feels such an undeniable joy and comfort when he does, certain truths must at last come to light.The sequel toa sweetly rising thingbut can be read as a standalone.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 49
Kudos: 517





	quite a bit to look forward to

**Author's Note:**

> a note: it's not saturated with it i don't think, but there's a throughline of hopeful references for what they'll do when they can go about the world more freely again. this is based on the lockdown vid as this is the sequel to [my continuation fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947105), but it's also definitely my own self-indulgent wistfulness, because i found writing that kind of hope helpful for me. there's also like, porn here, and there is no mention of illness, but if you don't want anything at all to do with the quarantine in your fic, i completely understand and encourage you to read something else.
> 
> sending an extra helping of love to all!

It takes all of twenty minutes for there to be a strange, liquid sort of knock at the door. Aziraphale spends most of that twenty minutes trying, bizarrely, to  _ tidy,  _ which he’d never once bothered with before in his life. Not for anyone else, that is—everything was kept in precisely the order he wants it to be in. But Crowley will be here for longer than he ever has, and Aziraphale feels himself moved to—to—make a more obvious sort of space for him? 

In practise, this doesn’t end up meaning more than clearing recipes off the sofa and fluffing the pillows slightly, and stacking several piles of books on  _ other  _ piles of books so there’s more room for slithering or what have you on the carpet. 

The mental preparation of having Crowley come over and then stay for an indefinite amount of time, that bit takes more than mental book-stacking. They’d been apart for far longer than two months and a half in the past, absolute  _ centuries,  _ though not too many at a time--and those intervals shrank, come to think of it, within the past millennia. And in the near year since the airbase, they’d not gone more than a week without each other’s company.

So when the knock came at last, Aziraphale didn’t know how to name what he felt in his chest. It shouldn’t have been  _ such  _ bright anticipation, not when it’s a rather routine thing to see Crowley, not when he hardly has a right to miss him when they’ve been apart for much longer, either.

But then, there he was, an enormous scarlet-obsidian serpent coiled around several trunks and barrels, the Bentley parked neatly across the street, and Aziraphale felt his face spread into a smile so wide and genuine, he realised he hadn’t smiled quite like that for—oh, well. Likely just about two months.

“What on earth are you doing, you could be  _ seen—”  _ he chastises the serpent, but Crowley slithers past him before he finishes getting the scold out, his belongings tucked into the foyer, the door-lock clicking shut. 

“Ss’fine, angel, s’half past eleven and no one’s out there anyway,” Crowley reassures, shifting into his human form mid-sentence.

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale stammers. He clears his throat, still smiling. “Hello.” 

“Hi,” Crowley says, a little breathlessly. He shifts his weight, acclimating back to his body. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, taking him in. Goodness, it’s  _ good  _ to see him. Aziraphale feels it in his very spine, a sense of strange and certain rightness _ ,  _ having him back in the bookshop. “Oh, you’ve let your hair go long.” It’s just past his shoulders, brushing the short sleeves of the shirtdress he’s got on under his jacket, a plain night-black one that hits above his knees, cinched with his usual belt. It looks terribly comfortable, and also very good on him, framing his hips nicely and dipping low at the throat to show off the scattering of copper hair on his chest.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley mumbles, running a slim hand through it. “I actually dyed it blond for a while, then purple, then shaved it all off in a fit, and then this seemed like sort of a comfortable place to settle? For now?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale swallows. He runs an absently fretful hand through his own hair, the state of which might well be ghastly for all the real attention he’s paid it of late. And his heart, which he’s paid even less attention to since the lockdown began, is thundering in his chest. It’s been so lovely being alone and having all this time to himself, but  _ goodness,  _ this feels quite unavoidably dizzyingly spectacular. Perhaps because Aziraphale never does need to  _ not  _ be himself, when Crowley’s around. (And there’s the added bonus of having Crowley around.)

“You don’t like it?” Crowley asks, misunderstanding his expression entirely.

“No! I’ve always liked your hair like this.” Aziraphale says, too quickly. Blast it, he’s all  _ giddy  _ from Crowley’s presence. He smiles again, more warmly this time. “Suits you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, turning nearly the color of it. He looks like he’s going to say thank you, and then he claps his hands together instead. “Wine then! Right?” 

“You—you don’t want to get your things settled?” Aziraphale gestures at the trunks. 

“Well, I—thought it would sort of—happen? As we went on?” Crowley says, still quite pink at the ears. “S’just clothes and wine and things really, a spare phone charger or two. The—er—picnic things are in the Bentley,” he adds, and Aziraphale rocks on his heels awkwardly, though a thrill goes through him. Oh goodness, he actually brought them. Not that Aziraphale doubted him, really—come to think of it, Crowley has actually never, in all their time knowing each other, broken a promise. 

“All right,” Aziraphale says kindly. “I just want you to be comfortable, you know.” 

“‘m always comfortable here,” Crowley murmurs almost offhand, and Aziraphale swallows hard again. 

“Wine then it is!” he announces before he can think any further, a funny buzzing going in his ears, and at that Crowley miracles a tap into the barrel of Montepulciano, and they settle into a very familiar rhythm. 

Crowley’s jacket gets rolled up at the sleeves, his glasses come off and his boots too and soon they’re sprawled on either side of the sofa, the wine flowing freely, and easy laughter warms the shop. It’s not long before Aziraphale’s loosened his tie, and Crowley’s got a leg over one arm of the sofa—or perhaps it  _ has  _ gone long, perhaps a day’s gone by. 

Time’s gone all fuzzy during lockdown anyway, but this is a more pleasant sort than it was when Aziraphale only had pastries to mark its passage, so lost are they in catching up and dreaming about the places they’ve lived together, planning where they’ll return to when the world opens for them again. They’re keeping a list, a mental tally, a plan for the nebulous forthcoming future.

“Ooh, and that delightful bakery just outside Lyon, remember?” Aziraphale croons, his eyes wide. “We met at the village square after I’d tempted some cowherds into—er— _ lascivious deeds  _ for you—”

Crowley waves his hand with the wineglass in it, sloshing the dregs of his current helping about. 

“They were both already thinking about it nonstop, angel, you don’t have to feel guilty about  _ that.  _ And  _ someone _ , you did love that mille-feuille, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale groans, perhaps a little too loudly with his wine-soaked mouth, remembering. “Right when we can go out again. We will give them our patronage.”

“Added to the list,” Crowley asserts, with a salute and a grin. “Speaking of France, I want to get back to Rue Saint-Louis en l'Île. Think I left some good port tucked above an alleyway there.”

“Oh, Paris,” Aziraphale sighs, and then his wine-flushed cheeks pinken further. He remembers their lunch, after the Bastille. And he remembers a very different alleyway, in which he’d adjusted a stray curl that had gotten loose from Crowley’s preposterous hairdo, and there had been a blurry sort of moment when—

But nothing had happened, of course. Just like it hadn’t happened again, the next day in Versailles, and it hadn’t outside the Globe, and it hadn’t after Petronius’s, and it hadn’t when Crowley’d driven him home after saving his  _ books  _ in the church, a thousand upon thousand of times when they’d  _ nearly  _ and they  _ hadn’t,  _ all because of rules that—

—that don’t exist anymore. Lines that have been thoroughly crossed. 

And as delighted as Aziraphale has been these past few weeks without anyone else around, the happiest, the very happiest he’s ever been, have been every single time leading up to when they’ve almost—

“Oh, and Bathgate, in West Lothian, angel!” Crowley crows, polishing off his glass. “I know it’s teeny, but those lovely  _ hills,  _ you can catch the loveliest sunset off those, I could’ve wept when I was there blessing that baby for you.” 

His other arm is cast casually about the edge of the sofa. Aziraphale scoots slightly forward, so that if Crowley were to lower his hand, it would cup his shoulder. Crowley doesn’t, but he doesn’t move away, either. 

“To the list,” he agrees, smiling gently. He’s trembling, he can feel it, but he’s also very, very pleasantly warm. Crowley’s eyes beam such a brilliant, gorgeous gold, he thinks, and nothing’s to stop him saying it, so he does. Why shouldn’t he know? It’s true, after all. “You have beautiful eyes, my dear.” 

“Don’t be a bastard,” Crowley deflects automatically, jerking his head and blinking hard as if to hide them. Aziraphale reaches out on instinct, cups his cheek, pulls him back. 

“‘M not,” he says, simple as anything. “It’s true.” 

There’s no script anymore. There’s no reason to keep to the dance--or at least, to keep it from reaching the natural conclusion Aziraphale’s been avoiding for centuries and centuries. They’re in this strange, nebulous space, the world rewriting and renewing, and everything is more terrifying and dangerous than ever, but this,  _ this  _ is a haven in the midst of it all. Somewhere buried in his ancient soul Aziraphale knows this is why he didn’t want Crowley over. That this is something inevitable, not because of a plan or because of fate, but because of something much simpler, and more common, and more powerful. Something that’s always been there, that’s only ever deepened.

Something there’s no need to be afraid of, anymore. 

_ “Me,”  _ Crowley scoffs, his voice softening as the space between them narrows. Aziraphale’s heart is no longer thundering. It’s beating a steady, lovely, almost human rhythm. “Please. When  _ your  _ eyes are the bloody ocean after a storm, all wild and brilliant like that, shut it—”

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale says again, shaking his head. Crowley’s eyes have gone very wide, his lips parting. “Beautiful.” And then Aziraphale tilts in close, and there’s no space between them left at all, and Crowley’s kissing him  _ back,  _ his mouth moving so impossibly gentle, so careful, that Aziraphale almost laughs into it, so heady the sheer  _ joy  _ of it, of  _ course  _ Crowley would kiss him tenderly, when has he ever,  _ ever  _ been anything otherwise—

He doesn’t laugh. Though he’s smiling like anything into the kiss, a sun-beam of wonder and delight. He presses his tongue into Crowley’s mouth and Crowley opens for him, giving a quiet moan. Aziraphale’s hand is still in Crowley’s hair, and he cards through it, delighting at the sounds it coaxes from Crowley. 

Aziraphale kisses him harder, shifting even closer to him on the sofa, and Crowley’s hands go around his shoulders, still clutching the empty wineglass in one, and soon they fall into such an easy rhythm, a give and take, and it’s so natural and comfortable and pleasurable Aziraphale can hardly remember how they managed to keep from doing this all along. Crowley is very good at kissing. 

Aziraphale pulls back at last, but only to place his wineglass on the floor. Crowley, panting slightly, doesn’t move to do the same, so Aziraphale reaches up to gently take it from him. 

“That was.” Crowley’s voice is hoarse, a different intonation than Aziraphale’s ever heard it. A fresh wave of thrill runs through him. What else is there to learn, to discover about him?  _ “That  _ was,” he says, again, shaking his magnificent head, and then the past tense of it hits Aziraphale.

“—just the beginning?” Aziraphale finishes, hopefully. 

Crowley’s head snaps up.

“You didn’t think—?” Aziraphale falters, deflating. “I mean, of course—if you’d rather not—” The wine buzz doesn’t feel remotely comforting anymore. “Sorry, I’m going to sober up.” He flinches as he purges almost all the alcohol from his bloodstream, watching Crowley do the same with a groan.

“Figured it was just a nice sort of comforting—thing? Yeah? Or—or what, you want me to be your  _ lockdown lover  _ or something,” Crowley stammers, an echo of his usual rambling drawl, trying to hitch up his usual grin and failing, “scratch your itch and then it’s what, back to—whatever it is you want it to get back to? I—can do that,” Crowley says, but—but he  _ doesn’t  _ mean it, because now that Aziraphale’s clear-headed, he can feel what is unmistakably Crowley’s love. 

It’s...always been there. It’s grown, and grown and grown, over the millennia, and Aziraphale hasn’t said anything because it didn’t feel  _ polite,  _ and more importantly he had never been sure what it was directed  _ at  _ anyway, sort of just figured it was the world in general, but now, well. With it radiating out of him like a star, there’s no way around it. Its existence, and how it mirrors Aziraphale’s own. 

It’s black as Crowley’s feathers, as his scales, as the depths of the galaxies Crowley helped create and just as fathomless, it’s as black as ash-soot and tree-rot, and it’s  _ Crowley’s, _ and it’s the most beautiful feeling as it washes over Aziraphale: like kindness, like selflessness, like desire, like paradise.

“You don’t have to—it’s all right, angel,” Crowley says, flinching away desperately. “Don’t worry about me, please, we can just—I mean—”

And Aziraphale looks into his eyes, Aziraphale basks in the encompassing power of his love, and he finds he is no longer afraid. Not in a way that keeps him from saying it, from acting on it, not anymore.

“I love you,” he says softly, and he’s smiling again. Crowley’s eyes go very wide.

“You love everything,” he whispers, deflecting, and Aziraphale’s already shaking his head.

“Not like this,” he says, and his smile broadens as he feels the hopeful waves of Crowley’s love careen through him again and again. “Not like I love you.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, in a very small voice.

“I am in love with you,” Aziraphale says, climbing into Crowley’s lap, “and I’m not going to stop when we can go outside again.” He shrugs off his own jacket, lets it fall to the floor, making Crowley’s eyebrows dart up even as he’s wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. “I am in love with you,” he says, cupping Crowley’s cheeks with both hands now, “and you make me happier than anything else in all of existence ever has, and I’m rather very much done being apart from you.” 

“Oh,” Crowley repeats, but his voice is different again, heavy with joy and and want and love, his beautiful eyes crinkling up at the corners with elation, his hands steady on Aziraphale’s lower back now. 

“I am in love with you,” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s mouth, “and I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it, but I’m going to make up for that now, I think, I’m not going to go a day without saying it, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley murmurs. He leans up, leans in close, his voice bright with wonder and fondness. “I love you too.” 

Aziraphale kisses him harder this time, smiling into it. They fall back into their rhythm so easily, hungrier now but rosy with the dizzying knowledge of the long-buried love unearthed, brought into the light, imbued in every movement between them—as it always has been, but now right there, clean on the surface of it. 

“We get to do this now,” Aziraphale says in wonder, curling into him, kissing the planes of his cheeks, his jaw, his hairline. “Oh, my  _ love.” _

“Yeah,” Crowley says, sounding even more awed. His voice has gone as warm as a hearth, his hands just as comforting and safe as one too, as they play reverently over Aziraphale’s face and shoulders, and Aziraphale basks in it. 

Aziraphale presses their bodies together, and it’s delicious but not enough, the layers of clothes between them suddenly feeling very much in the way.

“Do you want—that is, please know there’s no pressure to—” 

“You want to fuck me?” Crowley asks, a hint of a disbelieving, indulgent smile playing on his expression, and Aziraphale  _ thrums  _ in response.

“Goodness, you’re  _ far  _ too attractive when you talk like that.” Aziraphale grinds in a little closer, digging his hands in Crowley’s hair.

“What, when I talk about fucking you, is that it?” Crowley’s grinning in earnest now, pulling Aziraphale in by the waist so he can feel just how much Crowley, indeed,  _ wants.  _

“Yes, that’s it.” 

“What about when I talk about how much I’ve thought about you naked, is that still attractive?”

“Very much so,” Aziraphale says in a rush, burying his face in the crook of Crowley’s throat and his shoulder. Crowley shifts to get his jacket off, so he’s in the dress alone and Aziraphale can press hot, messy kisses there, utterly intoxicated by the scent of Crowley’s bare skin, clean and sweet and warm. 

“How much I—ah!—how—how much I’ve  _ thought  _ about this, angel,” Crowley moans, rocking up into his touch, “how badly I want you, how badly I want to make you feel good, if you’ll let me, how impossibly good it feels to—to have your mouth on me—”

“I’ll get my mouth on you,” Aziraphale murmurs into his ear, and sits back on Crowley’s thighs to reach beneath the hem of his dress. He pulls back, knowing he mustn’t rush this bit, that this consent can’t be  _ banter,  _ or another one of the many favors Crowley’s done for him. “I mean it, though, my dear. Only if you’d like. We’re not doing  _ anything  _ we don’t both want to do.”

“Angel,” Crowley pants, his eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, his erection hard against Aziraphale’s body. “Please?”

Aziraphale smiles and kisses him on the mouth a little too hard, overwhelmed with a crash of love and the giddy, heady realization that—

“I get to give you this now, do I? We get to talk like this now, I get to love you and tell you I love you, and—” 

_ “Oh!”  _ Crowley gasps, as Aziraphale palms his cock through his briefs. He rubs it again and again through the fabric, watching Crowley arch into his hand, the dress bunching under the belt by his waist, revealing his delicate hips, the dusting of copper hair along his thighs and stomach. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Aziraphale marvels, “just gorgeous, you always have been, you always are.” He runs his thumb over the slit of Crowley’s cock through the cotton, where it’s soaked through with pre-ejaculate. “Oh, my darling. Is this for me?” 

“Always,” Crowley says hoarsely, “always,  _ always,  _ angel—”

“May I?” Aziraphale asks. He slides down to the floorboards, leaving on all his remaining clothes, but undoing his bowtie and the buttons of his collar.

“You don’t have to—”

“I  _ want  _ to,” Aziraphale cuts him off, with so much petulant insistence (which Crowley ought to be  _ very  _ familiar with) in his voice that Crowley trails off, biting his lip and tilting his hips up so Aziraphale can tug his briefs down. Aziraphale shakes his head, his mouth positively watering at the sight of Crowley splayed out on the sofa, dress pooled around his stomach, his long, curved erection dripping precome. “Do you have any idea how much I—well.” He drags the flat of his tongue from base to head, moaning in satisfaction, and Crowley keens beneath him. “I’ll just have to show you, then.”

“Angel,” Crowley breathes, spreading his thighs, settling into the sofa cushions. 

“That’s right, there you go,” Aziraphale murmurs, massaging his calves, his hips. “I know this is all  _ very  _ much at once, but I have rather a lot of time to make up, and I’m afraid I want you quite  _ fucking  _ badly, is the thing. I want you comfortable, here with me, and I want you to feel as good as I can possibly make you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, as Aziraphale sucks on the head of his cock, and then Aziraphale takes him into his mouth to the hilt, and he can’t say anything at all. 

Crowley feels  _ marvelous.  _ After having nothing but loads of cake and the odd sushi takeaway for weeks, just the salt-bitter of Crowley’s arousal would be enough to make Aziraphale weak with want, but coupled with the heft of his length on the angel’s tongue, the hot, hard slide of him, how Crowley’s thighs shake and his hands clench at the throw-blanket—oh,  _ oh.  _ Aziraphale moans in delight around his cock, deep-throating him over and over, burying his nose into the autumn-red curls at Crowley’s base.

“Wait—it’s—angel, I’m—”

Aziraphale pulls back somewhat regretfully, still lapping at the dripping precome as Crowley twitches. 

“Oh fuck, look at you,” he whispers, running his thumb over Aziraphale’s wet lower lip. Crowley’s hair is a mess, fallen into his eyes, his cheeks flushed, his chest too, where it heaves beneath his dress. 

“Look at  _ you,”  _ Aziraphale counters, his own erection throbbing in his trousers. “Too handsome, you wicked, lovely thing. I have no idea how I’ve kept my hands to myself before, honestly.” He moves to duck his head again, but Crowley scoots back. 

“I—don’t want to come yet,” he says in a somewhat strangled voice. “‘M not  _ usually  _ this quick, I swear, it’s just, well! Rather a lot, you know!” 

“I wouldn’t mind if you were,” Aziraphale says at once. “I—please, Crowley, you have nothing to  _ prove  _ to me, I just want to make you feel good!”

At this, Crowley tilts forward to kiss him, making a small, very excellent sound as he tastes himself on Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“You make me feel good,” he murmurs. His breath is warm and his lips are soft, and Aziraphale loves him, and loves him, and tells him so.

“If you don’t want me to suck you off at the moment, could I go down on you?” he asks. He slips his hand between Crowley’s legs, presses gently below his balls. “Here?”

Crowley gives a sort of strangled shout at his touch, but grinds down against Aziraphale’s fingers. 

“Angel,” he says in awe.

“You came over to watch me eat, didn’t you?” Aziraphale half-succeeds at fighting back a smile, and lets himself bask in Crowley’s astonished expression and garbled sputters as he settles back down to his knees. 

He pulls his bowtie all the way off now, and undoes the top buttons of his collar, pleased at the effect this has on Crowley’s cock, which pulses a steady stream of precome as Crowley watches. It gives a visible throb when Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves, and he can’t help but give it a few solid strokes before spreading Crowley’s cheeks apart and grinning at his sweet, tight hole. 

“Thighs up for me, darling,” he says merrily, pushing them back. “There we are. Oh, you  _ are _ gorgeous, my dear,” Aziraphale hums appreciatively, taking in Crowley’s handsome face from this new angle, his wreck of arousal, his cock throbbing against the taut muscles of his stomach, his balls tight and full beneath, his little hole clenching. “May I?” 

Crowley nods, hitching his dress up to his chest so he can watch. Aziraphale buries his face between Crowley’s legs and presses the flat of his tongue against Crowley’s entrance, licking him over and over, nice and slow. He brings the tip of his tongue to Crowley’s hole, circling it teasingly, then increasing pressure until Crowley’s gasping, thighs trembling, as Aziraphale moans into him. 

“You’re delicious, you know that?” Aziraphale knows his mouth  _ really  _ should stay quite occupied, but he can’t help it, getting the words out between long, loving licks. “Every bit of you, I— _ mmm,”  _ he sighs, slipping his tongue inside as Crowley whimpers, “I love it. Even better than I could have  _ dreamed,  _ I don’t think I’ll be able to fight off my cravings for this particular taste, my dear.” He draws Crowley open with his tongue, delving to lap up into him. He coaxes Crowley open with his lips, pressing kisses to his hole, making a veritable  _ meal _ of him, and savouring. Crowley’s rolling his hips up, and Aziraphale’s so hard now he can hardly keep from reaching between his own legs.

“I’ve never—ngk—never been one to deny you a craving.” Crowley manages a bit of his usual cheek, and Aziraphale smiles into him. He gives one last hard, deliberate swipe of his tongue, and sits back.

“No,” he agrees. “You haven’t.” 

“C’mere,” Crowley says throatily, “kiss me?”

Aziraphale settles next to him on the sofa. He takes Crowley into his arms and crushes their mouths together, deep and messy, all hope of finesse evaporating in a haze of want and love. 

“You feel so  _ fucking _ good,” Crowley murmurs. He reaches for Aziraphale’s erection, rubs it through his trousers, and inhales sharply as he runs his fingers over the girth of it.  _ “Fuck.” _

“I know this is all happening quite quickly,” Aziraphale has the presence of mind to say, leaning into Crowley’s touch, “so please, if you’d like to— _ oh,  _ that’s lovely—to slow down—”

Crowley snorts a laugh. 

“What,” he says fondly, “you think you’re going too fast for me, angel?” And he takes Aziraphale’s hand and brings it between his thighs. Crowley presses up against his fingers as he kisses him again. Arousal seems to have loosened his anxiety slightly, that and Aziraphale’s terribly obvious desire. It should feel so much faster than it does—but instead, it feels so natural, so right, the inevitable next step, a wave cresting on the brim, waiting to spill over and flood at last. “I want you to fuck me, angel,” Crowley says, so earnest Aziraphale aches. “I want you inside of me, I want you to fill me up, and make me come.” 

“Oh,  _ fuck,”  _ Aziraphale moans, and scrambles to undo his own trousers at last. “Oh, darling, oh—oh dear.” He clears his throat. “Ah, we’re going to need some form of lubrication.” He glances about, as if some might materialise, but he always just uses miracles for this sort of thing when he’s by himself, if he hasn’t gotten himself wet enough as is. “Of course, I could just—” he raises his hand, indicating as much, but Crowley flinches.

“Ah—if it’s all right with you, I’d like to keep miracles out of this,” he admits. “At least for now?”

“Entirely understandable,” Aziraphale assures, “but—well—”

“‘ve got some.” Crowley says, cheeks bright pink again, clashing horribly with his hair. “Ngk. Er. In one of my trunks, over there.”

Aziraphale stares at him, open-mouthed, his whole being singing with love.

“My  _ dear— _ you mean you—you  _ planned _ —?”

“‘Course not!” Crowley says, scandalized, as he climbs off the sofa to go fetch it. “I mean the thought crossed my—but I never would have ever  _ presumed,  _ naturally, just seemed like no harm in  _ bringing  _ it—” He returns with a little bottle Aziraphale suspects has been miracled to keep refilling itself, as it looks full but quite worn. 

“You absolute optimist,” Aziraphale grins. “You old romantic.”

Crowley bites his bottom lip, takes in the sight of Aziraphale sitting on the sofa with undone trousers. He cocks his hip and his gaze is all heat and love, the slim outline of him cutting an intoxicating figure in the center of the bookshop’s back room. 

“I’ll show you romance, angel,” he says, his voice low and sultry. A shiver of arousal courses through Aziraphale; he’s not grinning anymore. “Go on. Take your cock out for me.”

Aziraphale does him one better, removing his pants and trousers entirely. He shucks his vest, then his shirt as Crowley watches, his erection tenting his dress.

“Sock garters?” Crowley raises an eyebrow, undoing his belt at last.

“You like them.”

“Shut up,” Crowley breathes, and pulls his dress over his head. He strides over to the sofa, presses Aziraphale into the cushions, and straddles his lap. He bends to kiss him deep and slow, their naked bodies sliding hot together.

“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him, his hands traversing as much of Crowley’s lovely form as he can reach. The curve of his hips, the planes of his back, the swell of his sweet, small ass, all the places Aziraphale’s watched for years and never let himself wonder about, and now they’re here, Crowley’s here, in his lap, humming into his touch, and it’s better than he ever could have dreamed. He’s a demon, yes, a fallen angel, made to be an agent of Satan himself, and he’s also a very good person with a very good heart, and so much trust and hope in the world. He’s far from perfect, but  _ perfect, holier than thou,  _ that doesn’t hold much water when it comes to being well and truly good, after all—and a bit of good natured wickedness hardly cancels it out. 

Aziraphale clutches at his slim frame, at his bony body and his skin full of scars and stretchmarks and loves him and loves him and  _ loves him.  _ There’s so much patience in him, and curiosity, and kindness, and joy, and Aziraphale can feel all of it encompassed in his love.

“I love you too,” Crowley whispers, and presses the bottle into his hands. “Get me ready?”

“Tell me how you like it, all right?” Aziraphale maneuvers around Crowley’s body on his lap to get his fingers slick. It’s awkward, and Crowley’s got to tuck his elbows in, but it’s somehow still so sweet and romantic nonetheless. 

“You’ve been brilliant thus far,” Crowley says, wrapping his arms about Aziraphale’s shoulders, “absolutely bloody  _ gifted  _ at it, angel, I— _ oh!” _

“Is that all right?” 

“Oh fuck, oh  _ fuck—yes,  _ it’s—oh, angel—”

“Can I go deeper?” Aziraphale asks, curling the tip of his index finger. 

“Yeah,” Crowley says, breathless, bearing down on him. Aziraphale slowly, slowly presses his finger in to the knuckle, then all the way. He clutches Crowley to him with his other hand, dusting kisses to his chest, breathing in his scent. “One more, please.”

“There we are,” Aziraphale murmurs, sliding a second finger into him. He tilts his head up to watch, and groans aloud at the sight of Crowley taking his fingers. His well-kissed lips are parted, his brows furrowed, every line of his throat standing out as he gulps and sinks lower into Aziraphale’s lap until their cocks brush together, making both of them gasp. He starts to ride Aziraphale’s fingers, slowly, and then in earnest, and Aziraphale curls them, spreading, searching, until Crowley makes a high, sweet, broken sound and nods very hard, his hair falling forward into Aziraphale’s eyes. “There we are, my darling. You’re so good for me, aren’t you.” Aziraphale fucks his fingers up to match Crowley’s rhythm. “So  _ tight,”  _ he bites the word off, gritting his teeth, his cock throbbing madly as Crowley rocks against it, “and hot for me.”

“Okay,” Crowley says, hoarsely, reaching for Aziraphale’s wrist with his own shaking hand. 

“You’re ready for my cock, sweetheart?”

_ “Fuck,  _ angel!” Crowley manages an incredulous half-smirk even as he squirms when Aziraphale withdraws his fingers and goes to slick more lubricant on his own cock. “Did  _ not  _ know you could talk like this.”

“I rather think you bring out quite a lot of qualities in me,” Aziraphale says mildly, lining his cock up with Crowley’s entrance.

“The best ones.” Crowley says it like a joke, but Aziraphale looks up at him sincerely.

“Yes,” he smiles, pulling Crowley into a kiss. “The best ones.”

And then Crowley lowers himself onto Aziraphale’s cock and they both cry out.

“Is it—oh, angel, angel, tell me how it feels.” Crowley’s voice is different again, raw and sweet and rough, and Aziraphale seizes his cheeks and kisses him with all the love he has. 

“Perfect,” he whispers truthfully. “But—are you all right? Please, if we need to slow down, or if you’d prefer if I were smaller, or— _ oh!” _

Crowley starts to move, his hands braced on the sofa on either side of Aziraphale’s shoulders, and only takes a moment to get used to it before he’s riding him in earnest. 

“I’ve wanted this,” Crowley pants, his spine arching in Aziraphale’s hands, his cock bobbing against his stomach, “for how long? How many millennia? How many times have I fucking fantasized about you wanting me like this, angel, I—ngk,  _ fuck,  _ you’re big…”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Aziraphale finds himself utterly overcome. “I’m going to fuck you precisely how you like it, from here on out. I’m going to  _ love  _ you precisely how you like it.” 

Crowley bites his lip. He sinks into Aziraphale’s lap, grinding down on his cock, open and full.

“Don’t know how I like  _ that,”  _ he says softly. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, gentle as anything. “Haven’t really been loved before.”

And Aziraphale swells with rage and grief for the years lost, for the years spent bottling his love into the glass chamber of his heart, for believing so rigidly in the utterly wrong thing, and he looks up at Crowley and he sees the hope and the adoration there, and he’s filled with fierce determination, because this,  _ this,  _ is what is holy. 

“Yes, you have,” Aziraphale says, brushes the words in a kiss against Crowley’s mouth, rocking up into him. “Oh, you have. But I’m going to do it properly now, darling.” He reaches up and cradles Crowley in his arms, lifts him up to turn them around and seat him on the sofa. Aziraphale kneels before him, and pushes into him slowly this time, inch by inch, Crowley spreading and opening for him. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers, and he’s shaking, his eyes very bright even as they roll back, even as he locks his ankles around the angel and pulls him in deep. “It’s so  _ much.” _

And Aziraphale understands that he means the sex, and the shift in the shape of what they are to each other, and also, the at last unfettered glow of Aziraphale’s own love, as it emanates from every bit of his ethereal sense and his human form.

“It is,” Aziraphale agrees, fucking him steady and soundly now, Crowley’s lithe body clenching velvety and hot around him. “We have time to get used to it, my darling, my love.” 

“My love,” Crowley repeats, the beginnings of a smile re-emerging on his clever mouth. He digs his hands into the throw-blanket, bracing himself. “My  _ love.  _ Harder, my love, fuck me harder—”

“I love you,” Aziraphale tells him, snapping his hips hard enough to make Crowley cry out. “I love you,” he tells him, brushing Crowley’s sweaty curls back. “I love you, I love you, I  _ love you,  _ all of you, everything you are, and I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not taking it back.” He holds onto Crowley’s thighs and holds him steady and open as he slams into him harder and harder, drawing his cock out almost all the way, until just the head of it teases Crowley’s fucked-out rim, and then fucks him deep again, watching Crowley’s erection pulse precome onto his stomach as he does.

“Angel,” Crowley writhes, his voice very small now, “angel,  _ please— _ I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” Aziraphale hisses, reaching around for Crowley’s cock. He squeezes, and Crowley whimpers, his entire body shaking as Aziraphale pounds into him. Aziraphale pushes deep, concentrates on hitting him just there, on gripping him just tight enough, jerking him just hard enough for Crowley to nod, to whisper breathless hymns of  _ yeses _ , their bodies tangled in an aching, impossible, blessed knot of love and trust and at last, _ at last, _ release.

“Oh!” Crowley calls this out and nothing else as he comes, a broken, ecstatic, glorious sound that wrenches out of his throat, and Aziraphale thinks he has never heard anything more beautiful in his life. It’s Crowley  _ unguarded,  _ nothing of swagger or pretense about it, just him, a wreck of sheer pleasure and adoration, and Aziraphale gets to give it to him, gets to hold him in his arms through it, gets to fuck him hard through it, gets to love him  _ so _ hard through it, as Crowley gasps and clenches around him, his come pulsing hot between them. 

“So that’s what you look like when you come,” Aziraphale murmurs, tilting up to kiss him. “That’s what it’s feels like, what it smells like.” He pulls out carefully, though he keeps his arms around Crowley as he licks the come from Crowley’s stomach. “And that’s what you taste like, oh my.” He licks up more, blissed out and savouring it. “Scrummy.” 

“Angel,” Crowley groans, burying his face in his hands. “You were being so very, very sexy, and then you did  _ not _ just—”

“You’d better get used to it, dear,” Aziraphale says happily, lapping up more of it with a contented wiggle, caressing Crowley’s heaving chest.

“Okay,” Crowley says after a beat, and Aziraphale can hear him smiling. He reaches down to run a hand through Aziraphale’s hair. “I’ll  _ try,  _ at least. Will you come here?”

Aziraphale gives one last wet lick, scooping as much of it as he can onto his tongue. He swallows with a satisfied hum, and lets Crowley tug him into his arms and into a damp kiss. Crowley lays him along the couch, slotting their bodies together, and it’s cramped and sticky and perfect. 

Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow somewhat petulantly and Crowley laughs, a cozy, well-fucked chuckle that comes from his gut, and it’s the sweetest thing Aziraphale’s ever heard.

“This?” Crowley asks, in that same fond tone. He reaches for Aziraphale’s erection, where it’s still slick. Aziraphale nods, wiggling delightedly when Crowley starts stroking him, and then quickly shifts to breathy, ragged moans. He nuzzles against Crowley’s chest as Crowley handles him so well, long, clever fingers gripping him just right, flicking a fingertip every so often over his dripping slit. “You’ve got a beautiful cock, angel,” Crowley murmurs, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow. “I really fucking like having it inside me, you know.” 

“You’ll _ —oh, _ goodness—have it again soon enough,” Aziraphale manages. Crowley’s touching him, he’s  _ touching  _ him, and it’s somehow an entirely fresh intimacy from when Aziraphale was buried inside him, here with Crowley’s hand working over his cock and their bodies pressed together, and it feels just as good. Aziraphale shivers as he thinks of the many new, wondrous ways they’re going to get to explore being together. “And  _ yours,”  _ he moans. “Just exquisite, darling, just  _ gorgeous,  _ I’d like it every way I can have it, I hope you know—”

_ “Fuck,  _ angel.” Crowley’s pace stutters slightly, Aziraphale can feel him gulp. “R-really?”

_ “Please, _ ” Aziraphale gasps out, thrusting his hips up into Crowley’s palm. “Oh,  _ yes,  _ I want you in my mouth again, I want to make you come with just my mouth, I want to swallow you down. And I want to fuck you again, I’m never going to get enough, not of your perfect body nor of—of being  _ joined  _ with you.” He spreads his thighs as best as he can, squirming as Crowley’s ceaseless hand pulls him closer, Crowley’s heartbeat thrumming in his ear. “And I want you to fuck me, if you’d like—”

_ “If I’d like,”  _ Crowley repeats, with so much incredulity it leaves absolutely no question as to  _ that  _ particular prospect.

_ “Oh,”  _ Aziraphale moans, picturing it and nearly coming right then at the thought, “you’ll see to me so well, won’t you,  _ won’t  _ you, darling, you’ll fuck me just as I ask—”

Crowley gives a half-self-deprecating laugh, but it’s so eager and full of love it doesn’t come off as anything but beautifully tender. 

“I’ll do my best, I can promise that—”

“You’re always perfect for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, nearly babbling, truths spilling out of him like a font now, here on the precipice of orgasm and held in such love and care and hope, for a future in which finally all his dreams will, quite literally, come true. “Always, always—and I’m sure you’ll fuck me just as good when I shift my body, won’t you, you know I like having a cunt sometimes, and you do too, and I know that will be just as—oh,  _ fffuck! _ —just as exquisite—”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley murmurs. He’s out of breath, his hand warm and slick on Aziraphale’s cock, and Aziraphale’s so close and he gasps it, mumbles it into Crowley’s chest, his body tensing in Crowley’s arms. “All of it. Anything you like. Anything  _ we  _ like.” Crowley presses a steadying kiss to his forehead, and Aziraphale can feel a wondrous smile on his mouth. “Add it to the list.”

“Crowley!” 

Aziraphale cries out, wordless and joyful. There’s going to be a future. They’re going to make love in it, a thousand ways, and a thousand ways again. They’re going to get to say what they like to each other, at last. They’re going to get to revisit the world they fell in love with, the world they fell in love  _ in,  _ and they’re going to inscribe new and precious meaning into each and every single one of those places. 

More than anything, they’re going to do it  _ together.  _ They get to figure out what that looks like, together.

Orgasm burgeons through Aziraphale like it never has before, the blossoming of a frozen flower, the birth of a star, the crash of a sharp summer daybreak. Maybe it’s because Crowley’s just very good with his hands, maybe it’s because he’s wanted this for so long, and maybe it’s because he gets to bury his face in Crowley’s chest this time, gets to feel Crowley hold him close as he shakes and comes over both of their chests, gets to feel Crowley kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, wherever he can reach.

“Crowley,” he says again, when he can speak. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and his name sounds different in Crowley’s mouth now, the world reshaped, the multitudes of meanings of what they are to each other  _ finally  _ something closer to defined. 

Aziraphale flings his shaky arms around Crowley’s shoulders and kisses him on the mouth.

“This is really happening,” Crowley says. He caresses Aziraphale’s body, his shoulders, his back, the rolls of his stomach, the plush of his thighs. He pushes back Aziraphale’s sweaty curls, pulls their sticky bodies together, and Aziraphale can feel reverence in every single movement. 

“At last,” he whispers, and lets his own hands traverse Crowley’s with that same reverence. Crowley melts into his touch, and smiles.

“You know, angel,” Crowley says, “As shit as shit is out there right now, overall, well. I think we have quite a bit to look forward to.”

Aziraphale kisses him again, because he wants to, and because he can. 

“My dear,” he says, mirroring Crowley’s smile, “you are absolutely right.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope you liked it <3
> 
> check out my other fics here and talk to me about ineffable kisses on tumblr @ [letmetemptyou](https://letmetemptyou.tumblr.com/)


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